


Give Me an Inch of Your Broad Earth

by Phoenixflames12



Category: Wolf Hall (TV), Wolf Hall Series - Hilary Mantel
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 08:35:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23968480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenixflames12/pseuds/Phoenixflames12
Summary: January 1536What if Gregory had jousted and been unhorsed by the King?
Comments: 7
Kudos: 19





	Give Me an Inch of Your Broad Earth

**Author's Note:**

> Title: 'So I beg you, grant me an inch of your broad earth, Father-' The Mirror and the Light pg. 497

January 1536

The ground is hard and cold under his head, the roar and heat of the tightly packed crowds unbearable.

Instinctively, he tries to curl up against the pain, the torn-up mud a rough pillow for his aching head, remembering at the last minute his fathers’ last words as he left the tent. 

‘ _And above all, fight your body’s ability to- survive.’_

The memory of a rough palm resting on his shoulder, skin hard and calloused from years of quills and ledgers, giving voices to past ghosts of hammers and anvils and burns that he knows nothing about.

He tries not to curl up.

There is blood in his mouth.

He can feel it, cold and metallic against his teeth, burning his throat, pulsing in tandem with the agony in his abdomen. Between his thighs, he can still feel his mounts’ gathering of bone and muscle and flesh and sweat, fear pulsing through its every sinew as it reared and shied away from the Kings’ lance.

He had barely had time to think before it bolted, bucking in terror against his weight.

He had lost both his stirrups, his hands faltering against the beasts’ mouth, barely registering the force of the blow as he had fought to remain upright.

It hadn’t hurt at first.

All he had felt was the dull shame of having been unhorsed and the humiliation of lying on the cold, packed earth.

But now the pain comes.

It rolls and breaks in waves of agonising heat through his ribcage, lapping dangerously close against his lungs, shards of stove in bone, beating against the weight of the bent in breastplate.

He can do nothing to stop it.

Can do nothing but curl tighter around it, drifting in and out of consciousness as the world stumbles and spins above him.

‘Gregory? Gregory!’

Rough hands suddenly begin to uncurl him, supporting his head as they do so. From somewhere in the darkness he thinks he can hear Rafe’s low, urgent voice, the words undistinguishable against the blood roaring in his ears.

_Rafe would be a better son to you, Father._

_Rafe would…_

Somewhere on the edge of his consciousness, he thinks he can hear Norfolk- brusque and loud in the chaos and from somewhere else the Queen- Ana Boleyna, her voice sharp and thickly French asking questions that don’t have answers.

Frantic hands fumbling with the leather straps of his armour cursing stiff buckles and cold fingers.

A pause.

A breath.

A broken, choked up sob.

He doesn’t think he has ever seen his Father cry before.

He had not been home when his Mother and sisters had died from the sweating sickness, only hearing of their deaths from a brusque letter received at Cambridge.

He did not know if his Father had cried as he had carried their little shrouded bodies to burial or knelt beside the great bridal bed at Austen Friars, with only his aunt and uncle and the remainder of the household for company.

Another shard of agony stabs through his ribcage.

The acidic tang of bile mixed with blood crashes against his lips, his tongue dry and heavy, feeling too big for his mouth.

A splintered breath, his lungs realising almost too late that the confines of leather jerkin and steel breastplate have been removed.

He groans and coughs, hacking out the blood and bile, feeling a shaking hand reach round to cup his head and push him upwards so he cannot choke.

Another breath, this one wet and cold as he blinks and shakes his head like one of his greyhounds trying to rid its ears of water.

Around him the world slowly slides its way back into focus and with it comes the pain. It stabs at his ribcage, blazing against his lungs, making him wish for the comfort of the darkness.

The hand on his shoulder tightens its grip, his father’s small, grief-stricken eyes wide in a blanched, hollow face, swimming before his own. Amidst the sea of pale, winter-worn faces, he sees Rafe and Richard, wide-eyed, hollow-cheeked as they hover. He tries to smile for them but cannot seem to manage it.

His father’s grip now almost painful, voice choking, fingers digging through the doublet into his skin, sparking shards of salt against his eyes.

‘Don’t go to sleep, Gregory. That’s an order.’

* * *

He does not know how they return to Austen Friars.

He only fully becomes conscious of his surroundings when he wakes with a start in darkness, each breath a bolt of agony against the bandages wrapped around his chest.

Someone has left a candle burning on the small table beside his bed, its’ wick flickering yellow shadows against the darkness. Outside the bedroom window, he hears a fox scream, the river lapping against the landing stations, the thud of a door being pulled to.

As his eyes become more accustomed to the gloom, he sees his Father sat by his bedside, slumped over the sheets. Feels the weakened pressure of a rough hand clasping his own. His face is drawn in the dancing light, salt hardened like a slab of granite, eyelids twitching slightly as if at the end of a dream.

A single tear cuts down the weathered, wrinkled face.

In the shadows, he sees Rafe asleep in a chair by the door, curled up like a greyhound whelp.

Slowly, painfully, he exhales, a shot of pain across his ribs making him wince, biting his tongue, but knowing that it is no use. His Father sleeps like a cat, a trick learnt way back in Putney under Walter’s fist and the battlefields of Europe, shaking himself from sleep like water from a ducks’ back. His chair scrapes back as he stands, reaching over to rest a hand on his sons’ forehead, checking for fever.

From his corner, Rafe stirs for a moment, but sleeps on.

‘Gregory.’

The great, dark shoulders that he remembers sitting on, clinging to a dark, felt cap as a small child, playing at the giant Marlinspike, slump with relief, the word thick with emotion and heavy with sleep.

‘You’re back.’ Something that could be a smile catches at the older man’s lips.

He can do nothing but nod, his throat suddenly impossibly tight. The words he wants to say seem to have bundled themselves into a knot of emotion at the back of his mouth and try as he might he cannot seem to get them loose.

‘It’s all right,’ he hears his Father murmur, drawing him close. The coat he wears smells of cinnamon and firewood and Gregory wonders stupidly if he has spent time in the kitchen. ‘You’re home now. You’re safe.’

His throat chokes again and the tears come before he can stop them, great, heaving sobs that shake his shoulders and tear at his bandages. His Father, Thomas Cromwell, says nothing simply holds him tighter and lets him cry.

* * *

_**Fin**_

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the LLF Comment Project which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
> Short comments  
> Long comments  
> Questions  
> Constructive criticism  
> "<3" as extra kudos  
> Reader-reader interaction
> 
> This author replies to comments
> 
> Note: If you don't want a reply, for any reason (sometimes I feel shy when I'm reading and not up to starting a conversation, for example) feel free to sign your comment with 'whisper' and I will appreciate it but not respond!


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